


Hygge

by WritingQuill



Series: Meanings [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, POV Third Person, Pining, Requited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hygge (Danish): pleasant, genial, and intimate feeling associated with sitting around the fire in the winter with close friend(s)</p><p>(sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/703029">La Douleur Exquise</a> - can be read as a standalone)</p><p>It's a cold winter's day, two months after the whole Denise debacle, and Sherlock and John decide to get warm with a fireplace. There is wine and a bit of fluff, and general merriment all around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hygge

**Author's Note:**

> What? Two ficlets in two days? Who are you and what have you done with Mariana?  
> Anyway, this is sort of the sequel to La Douleur Exquise because I can't stand ambiguous endings and I'm sure you - as myself - would love to see our lovely boys finally being in love and all. I hope you enjoy this!

**Hygge** (Danish): _pleasant, genial, and intimate feeling associated with sitting around the fire in the winter with close friend(s)_

***

January was the coldest month of the year. That wasn’t a surprising fact in itself, it was just that _this_ particular January was worse than the others. The wind blew strong and sharp, cutting through clothes, digging its way through skin, reaching bones. It rained often, but umbrellas were futile. The air always smelt awfully salty. 

On that particular day — a dark, dark Wednesday — the case Lestrade had called them in was easily solved. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson took a cab back to Baker Street just as the clock hit three thirty and the sun began to set. 

Sherlock was sitting on the right end of the seat, looking out the window — but not really. He liked to look at John’s reflexion on the window when they were finished with a case, since there was always some interesting feature there to study. Today, he looked tired but content. Quiet, as per usual, and cold, judging by the way he continuously rubbed his hands on the underside of his thighs. Sherlock supposed it was a bit cold, and he was just starting to feel it now, what with the rush of the recently-solved case giving way to his human urges. His hands felt prickly and Sherlock stared at them strangely. 

He hummed in annoyance and John chuckled. ‘What?’ he asked. John sighed and shot him a small smile. 

‘You forgot your gloves this morning, I figured you’d end up getting cold hands by the end of the day,’ he explained. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

‘You knew I’d get cold hands?’ 

John shrugged and reached into his coat pockets for something. He withdrew a pair of black leather gloves — Sherlock’s. 

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Forgot about them until now. You might want to put them on.’ 

John placed the gloves on Sherlock’s leg and Sherlock gaped at him. Wonderful John, being extraordinarily ordinary again. It was infuriating. 

‘Thank you…’ Sherlock whispered lightly. John hummed and looked out the window, and then it was silent once more, that particular comfortable brand of silence they were so used to. 

* 

John hadn’t had a date in two months — and yes, Sherlock was keeping count. The last one to his recollection was the woman who filled their sofa with that horrible stench. He didn’t know how to feel about this, but then again, he barely ever knew how to feel about most things. And Sherlock figured this was one of the instances where she shouldn’t ask John for advice, since it related so closely to him. 

During those two months, the two of them had pretty much stayed the same as always. Solving cases, John blogging about it, Sherlock being bored a lot, same old. However, there was… something difference. It was a sort of tension that became a bit distracting if Sherlock’s mind was not focused elsewhere. 

He knew John felt it, too. Because sometimes Sherlock would catch him staring intently at the rug, his ears red at the tip. 

When had life become so infuriating? 

Now they were entering 221b after greeting Mrs Hudson briefly at the foyer. Sherlock put his coat and scarf on the hanger while John went straight for the kettle. Sherlock removed his gloves and stared at them — John had thought about him, about his needs. Which wasn’t that surprising, really, because he was always gibbering about how Sherlock _needed_ to eat and how Sherlock _needed_ to sleep and how he _needed_ to stop treating criminals so antagonistically otherwise it would earn him a little more than a blow in the head eventually. All extremely annoying. This small gesture, however, made that frustrating pang in his chest return, making him feel warm all over for some reason. Sherlock ignored it and threw the gloves in the general direction of his coat. 

When he turned, John was returning from the kitchen, two steaming mugs in his hands. He smiled and handed one to Sherlock. 

‘There, then I want you to eat something.’ 

Sherlock scoffed. ‘I ate yesterday!’ 

‘You have to eat everyday. It’s another annoying little thing you have to do to keep being alive,’ John replied with an eye roll, placing his own coat on the hanger than walking over to his chair in order to have his tea. Sherlock sat opposite to him in his own chair and frowned. 

‘Indian?’ he suggested. John grinned. 

‘I’ll call later.’ 

‘Good.’ And there was the silence again. 

* 

‘How about we light a fire?’ suggested John as they finished eating their curry. Sherlock looked up from his nearly empty plate and at the fireplace. He pondered. 

‘If you’re offering to do it,’ Sherlock replied, shrugging. 

John chuckled. ‘Come on! We can celebrate your solving that murder case in less than twenty minutes with that bottle of wine you nicked from Mycroft a few weeks ago.’ He stood up with that boyish grin of his and ruffled Sherlock’s hair before moving to the kitchen. Sherlock sat there in mild shock, trying not to blush as he still felt the warmth of John’s fingers on his scalp. _What is happening?_ he asked himself. John wasn’t usually this tactile with him, or anyone, really. But thinking back, in the past couple of months there have been a few more casual touches, and Sherlock hadn’t even noticed. But why? And now fire and wine. Odd. 

Twenty minutes later found Sherlock and John sitting by the fire John had managed to build. They both had a glass of wine and the silence was companionable as usual. But Sherlock’s mind was bubbling with questions. What was the point of the touches? Why had John stopped dating? What was that peculiar sensation Sherlock felt on his chest more often than not these days? He was about to ask them when John sighed. 

‘This is nice,’ he commented, his voice low and light. ‘We get so stressed with cases and work that relaxing sometimes is good. Even for you. And even if you don’t think so.’ 

Out of words, Sherlock could do nothing but nod. It was nice, though, if he thought about it. He would describe it as being as content as someone like him ever got. The company was pleasant — he did enjoy John’s presence, his smell was comforting — and the general atmosphere was serene enough that it made his mind quiet for a while. Except for the nagging questions he had about John. And yet, feeling the warmth of the fire spreading through him and the sweet taste of the 1943 Rivesaltes Domaine Marie he had taken from Mycroft’s wine cellar on Christmas. He felt pleasantly buzzed and, not wanting to disturb this rare calmness, Sherlock decided to keep quiet for the time being. 

John himself seemed quite pleased. His eyes were closed and there was a smile on his face as he gently turned the wine glass on his left hand. He tapped an index finger on it twice before bringing it to his lips and then, with a happy hum, he licked the side of his lips. Sherlock was mesmerised by the sight of John’s pink tongue tinged with the deep red of the wine, and by the flush of his cheeks and the openness of his posture. 

‘I love you,’ Sherlock blurted out, not seeming to be able to control his tongue and surprised by the words he had just uttered. _Oh no_ , he thought. That was bad, he wasn’t even aware of the feelings before they came out. It was the fine! It had to be the wine! Stupid fat Mycroft with his ridiculous expensive wines! 

John’s eyes snapped open and he stared at Sherlock for interminable seconds. Sherlock himself just sat there, wide-eyed like a deer in headlights. _NotGoodNotGoodNotGoodNotGood_ , he kept repeating to himself as time stretched and John kept silent. How would he ever made this right? _I meant it as a friend!_ , or _your ears must be playing tricks on you, John, because I said nothing_ , but not even Anderson would be stupid enough to buy these. 

‘You love me?’ John asked finally, staring straight into Sherlock’s eyes. He gulped and threw caution in the wind, because in the end of the day, Sherlock was always true to himself and this was something one didn’t lie about. With a resigned sigh, he nodded. 

‘I appear to, yes.’ 

John’s shoulders sagged and he rested the glass on the small table next to his chair. ‘Okay.’ 

Sherlock lifted a hand. ‘Look, John, I unders—‘ 

‘Good,’ John interrupted and Sherlock’s eyes were wide again. 

‘I’m sorry?’ 

‘That’s… that’s good.’ John smiled. ‘Because I think that I am… too… with you…’ 

‘Oh.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

Sherlock gulped once more and, for the second time that evening, found himself without speech. That was novel. Oh, wonderful, surprising John. 

John stood up and walked towards Sherlock’s chair, then placed his hands each on the chair’s arms and lowered himself until his eyes were at Sherlock’s eye level. He leaned in a pressed a kiss on Sherlock’s lips, a chaste thing tasting faintly of curry and expensive wine, while all around him Sherlock could smell that scent that was so John — anti-septic, soap, tea and fabric softener. Sherlock placed a hand on John’s nape and deepened the kiss slightly, but John pulled away before it got too much, which earned him a whimper Sherlock was not proud of. 

‘How about we finish the wine before doing that?’ he asked with a chuckle and wink. Sherlock felt himself smiling back involuntarily and he hummed in agreement.

For the rest of the hour, they sipped their wine and enjoyed the fire. 

Then Sherlock kissed John. 

Then there were many kisses after that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are welcome, by the way. Seriously, talk to me, I don't bite :)


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